


Good Samaritans

by Blissome



Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Forced Bonding, Hidden Talents, M/M, Power Dynamics, Sentinel/Guide, Sentinel/Guide Bonding, Unhealthy Relationships, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:42:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24850252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blissome/pseuds/Blissome
Summary: Returning from a party late on a winter's night, Blair stops to help an injured, unconscious man at the side of the road. He thinks he's done the right thing, but when the same man shows up at his university weeks later and seems all-too-interested in Blair, he begins to worry that he may regret his kindness.
Relationships: Jim Ellison/Blair Sandburg
Comments: 17
Kudos: 104





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic does not illustrate a healthy relationship! Read at your own risk.

ACT I: GARBAGE

Blair trips over the curb and swears into the dark of the night. He might have had too much wine tonight, he reflects, and too little sleep last night. It was worth it, though -- the wine. It wasn't every day that one of your closest friends celebrated their engagement. Tasha had been -- _and still is,_ he thinks, _still is, there's no reason to believe that the birth of a romance signals the death of a friendship_ \-- one of his best companions since the start of graduate school. 

Foot aching, he keeps walking and casually sweeps the area with his abilities. This is supposed to be a decent part of town, but he's been reading the recent spate of crime alerts the same as the rest of the university students and knows that a mugging is one of the last things he can afford. First there's the loss of money, and potential injury -- then, worse, interaction with the police and medical staff. All the kinds of people who ask the wrong types of questions. 

The sweep is nothing fancy, and nothing strong. He's too drunk for the first, and too smart for the second. Accidentally catching the attention of an official Guide or a Sentinel out here would be madness. _A mugging would be preferable,_ he thinks dryly. 

It catches nothing, but Blair keeps it active as he thumbs the keys in his pocket, shivers slightly against the cold, and thinks about how nice it will feel to fall into bed tonight. 

As he walks, the dim darkness in front of him slowly reveals more flats, more cars, and more of a quiet, empty road. His breath mists slightly in the winter air. More flats. More cars. And down the road cutting to the right, a construction site. A multi-use shopping center? Luxury flats? 

Hard to tell. He's peering at the signs on the site wall when his eye catches on a strange, dark shape against the metal sheeting. It's near the trash cans, but it's not a trash can. It's a man. A homeless man, sleeping? Blair asks himself, but even as the thought crosses his mind he knows that homeless or not, this man is not sleeping. 

He steps closer, wary. At this distance, Blair takes in the blood streaked down the man's temple and jaw, and time seems to slow. Dead? Blair thinks, wildly, before realizing that the man's chest is still rising and falling beneath a collared shirt, loose and partially unbuttoned. Not Dead, he revises, and is ashamed to realize that he's almost disappointed. A dead man wouldn't have felt like his responsibility. A --- a live man, an alive man -- he does.

Blair draws closer and pulls out his phone for more light. With shaking fingers, it takes him a few times to even locate the flashlight button. When he does, his gut churns again. He'd assumed the head injury was the worst of it, but now that he could see the man's left arm is almost glistening with blood and… not good. That was the official medical term, he decides. Not good.

The worst injury he'd seen before, well, this was Adam's lacerated, bleeding foot after he stepped on some glass near a field site. He'd foregone shoes out of carelessness. That was Adam's typical idiocy. But that injury was nothing compared to this. Nothing.

He contemplates calling an ambulance, but just the thought of it makes him feel even more nauseous. Even if he calls and then leaves, they'll have his phone number. And what are the chances the police will follow up on that lead, just to see if the person who called had any connection to the person who did all the--injuring?

He can't take the risk. Anything that needs to be done, he has to try to do himself. 

Crouching beside the man is awkward. There's little room to maneuver in the corner, and he certainly can't move the man. For one thing, he's badly injured. For another, he's… not small. He's got the form of a military man, Blair thinks wildly, or of a well-built police stripper. So either he was really shit fighter, or whoever hurt him really knew what they were doing.

It's also frightening. The man could be anyone. Could be dangerous. _I can still walk away,_ he thinks, but the thought is gone almost as soon as it came. He eyes the cut on the man's arm, eyes the fabric in his hands, and leans forward to tie an improvised tourniquet as quickly as he can before he changes his mind. The man groans once, voice low, as Blair tightens the knot.

Blair's heartbeat quickens, and he leans back on his heels, wary. The moment lengthens. He is still cold, and the man is still there: quiet. Christ, what am I even doing? Blair thinks, before moving closer again to peer at the man's head. The injury isn't clear from here.

Probably got hit from behind. The thought makes the continued silence of the evening seem threatening, and Blair automatically sweeps again with his Guide senses as he draws away. He doesn't even know what to do for a head injury. He's going to go home and forget this ever happened. Maybe try calling the police from a random Google number.

At least, that's what he wants to do. As soon as he begins to rise from his crouch, the man makes an odd sound and grabs Blair's wrist. Blair gasps; the man's eyes are open now. Open, blue, and seemingly blank. The stare of an invalid in the midst or fever, or a drugged man. But his grip is strong. Blair tries to pull away, shaking his arm. But the grip doesn't loosen. Like a dog with a bone, he thinks wildly before trying to pull away again, more desperately.

This time, he has better luck. The man's hand slides away and his eyes close, while Blair's heart pounds loudly in his ears. He's sweating now, beneath his coat. 

I need to leave, he thinks. And he does, quickly. The events of the past ten minutes--they couldn't have been more than that, even if it felt like ten hours--replay in his mind on an endless loop as he reaches his apartment. Every moment is dissected, examined, mutilated. 

He's still not sure he did the right thing.

ACT II: THE FIRST COFFEE

Six weeks later, Blair can barely believe that night even happened. It feels like a dream now, or a nightmare. He's settled back into his normal schedule of study, part-time work, and chores. Speaking of studying: he has several papers to read before tomorrow, and only one cappuccino.

 _Four dollars,_ he thinks, glum. _This little cup is gonna have to last me for hours._

It’s worth it, though, for a chance to work outside his apartment and run into other students. Plus, this is his favorite coffee shop. It's not another Starluck chain -- it's local.

When the soft bell above the entrance chimes, he looks up less out of curiosity than out of a desire to stop reading about sloppy research conducted by a professor he already dislikes.

But what he sees -- Jesus. His breath catches in his throat, and his hand tightens around his cup so quickly, some of the hot liquid sloshes and spills down his wrist. 

It's him. The man from before. Except now he looks… better. Seriously better. His posture reminds Blaire again of the military. For a second, he remembers his police stripper theory and wants to laugh, before he realizes he's still staring.

Embarrassed, he looks back down at his paper. His ears are burning and his hand is sticky with drying cappuccino. God, what if he came here for Blair? What if he remembers? How did he find him?

His Guide powers shimmer just out of reach. It would be easy to use them. So, so, easy. The desire to tap into them and scan the coffee shop is like an itch he badly needs to scratch.

Instead, he takes another sip of cappuccino and exhales slowly, trying to calm his racing heartbeat. Looking up from under his lashes at the floor, he scans the space until he sees what he's looking for: dark pants and those no-nonsense boots. 

The alley man, alive again. Alive and… ordering a coffee? 

Blair blinks. The man looks calm, his back is to Blair, and he's definitely just ordering a coffee.

Amazing. God. Could it really be an accident that he's here? He wants to laugh aloud, but keeps his eyes trained on those olive pants. And calves, and thigh, and ass. 

Maybe he is a police stripper.

The pants and their associated assets move to the pick-up area. They stay in the pick-up area. They leave the pick-up area. They come towards the tables. They come near Blair's table. They sit--fuck, no--they sit at the table directly across from Blair's table.

He's going to have to leave. This four dollar cappuccino was such a waste. 

Sliding his books into his bag and trying to keep his hands from shaking, Blair stands up as casually as he can. But before he can step away from the table, he hears the man speak.

"Hey." Blair braces himself for whatever will come next.

"Do you know the wifi password?"

 _Do I know the wifi password?_ He wants to laugh aloud with sheer relief.

"Uh, yeah. Yeah. Coffeebuzz3r."

"Thanks." His voice is low, steady. The type of voice that Blaire likes.

"Have we met before? You look familiar."

Shit. His relief vanishes, but he manages a casual laugh as he grabs his jacket from his chair. "No. I mean, I don't think so. You don't look familiar."

"Sure, sure." 

There's a brief silence. Time to leave, time to leave, Blair thinks. Time to leave before he fucking keeps talking. He grabs the cup still on his table and gulps down the rest of his cappuccino before walking away. No use wasting his money more than he already has. "Enjoy your drink," he says, almost surprised by how casual he still sounds, and walks out the door.

\-------------------------

Watching Blair leave, Jim smiles. 

_Hello again, sweetheart._

ACT III: THE GOOD LUCK FAIRY

The next two months pass quickly for Blair. He's got classes as a (underpaid) TA, he's taking a full class load, and trying to pursue his own research leads--not to mention maintain a sort-of healthy social life and go on runs around his neighborhood. 

Practice for when I have to run from the law, he jokes to himself, but he really just enjoys the raw physical exertion and the rare feeling he's left with afterwards: calm, or at least the closest to calm he ever gets.

Regardless of his busyness, though, everything in his life is going well. Surprisingly well. His special project funding, which his advisor had suggested might be cut, had actually been increased after a contribution from a wealthy alumnus. His landlord hadn't sent out his annual notice about rent increases yet, and had sent out a plumber the same day that Blair called him to let him know that a bathroom pipe was leaking. And when his bike had been stolen weeks earlier, he'd even managed to recover it at no cost after the thief apparently tried to sell it back to the same bike shop he'd originally bought him from.

Even the Police Stripper problem seemed resolved. He'd seen him several times around campus from a distance and silently freaked out each time, only calming down when he realized that the man seemed to have little interest in pursuing him and was, in fact, busy pursuing his own life. 

Eventually, he'd made casual inquiries with a friend and learned that the man was a new employee in the university's IT department, and that has name was either John or Jim.

So, yeah. Everything is apparently great.

"It feels like something is wrong," he complains to Tasha over drinks one Friday night at one of the cheaper student bars. "Things shouldn't be going right like this."

She laughs. "Seriously? Do you even hear yourself right now? Just admit you're being temporarily visited by the good luck fairy and enjoy it while it lasts."

"It’s not natural!" He puts his beer down heavily on the table and sighs, watching idly as the liquid sloshes gently in the glass. "I just… don't believe in the good luck fairy, okay?"

"Seems like something to talk about in therapy, Blair." She's only half joking, he can tell, but her eyes are kind and he can hardly be offended. He knows he's exactly as mentally healthy as any Guide hiding from the law and their proper role in society: not healthy at all. 

Not that Tasha knows about that. No one does, apart from his mother. He'd made the decision to hide so long ago that he doesn't even know what it would be like to be in the open. The thought of being able to just use his powers casually, to stretch out and take the feeling of a room or read the emotions of an approaching stranger--it seems like a dream.

A good dream, even, until he remembers what else comes with being a Guide in the open. Being matched with a Sentinel. Being under the constant supervision of said Sentinel. Losing the rights to pursue his own goals in life, unless his Sentinel says it's okay. Slowly becoming a part of the same hierarchical system he's run from his entire life.

Once he remembers that, the good dream becomes the nightmare.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said this would be two chapters, but now it's three. Onwards!

ACT IV: THE SECOND COFFEE

By the time spring starts to spread through campus, slowly encouraging pale green leaves and blossoms to grow on the grounds, the good luck fairy still hasn't left Blair's life, and he's beginning to relax into the idea that this might just be a good year for him. 

Even the things that normally annoy him, like the slow lines at the university library's attached coffee shop, don't. He's supposed to be teaching a class in a half-hour, but he's got about fifteen undergraduates in front of him and they all seem to be ordering frappes or macchiatos.

Oh, well.

The girl in front of him lifts her messenger bag higher on her shoulder, sending the bag swinging back to him. He steps backward to avoid it and somehow trips over something else he could have sworn wasn't there a few seconds ago, leaving him to bump into a warm, hard body standing behind him. 

He turns to apologize and the word barely makes it out of his mouth when he sees that it's John-Jim, the Police Stripper apparently hired several months ago by the IT department. 

"Sorry." 

"No worries." The man smiles at him. "Hey, I've seen you around a few times."

"Probably, sure." Blair is trying to be casual, but feels like an idiot instead. "Blair." He doesn't extend his hand, but the man does. Blair sighs inwardly and shakes it, keeping as tight a leash as he can on every ounce of his Guide abilities. _Do not extend_ , he thinks. _Do not extend._

"Jim." His voice is as pleasant as Blair remembered. 

"Nice to meet you," Blair says, lying. 

"Graduate student?"

"Yeah, yeah. Anthropology." The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. _Jesus, why am I giving him any more information than he needs?_

His earlier calm shattered, Blair deliberately doesn't ask Jim any follow-up questions. Now is not the time to be charismatic. The silence begins to stretch uncomfortably, and Blair tries to focus on the sounds of the students laughing and chatting around him instead of… this. If he's lucky, Jim will give up the conversation and they can continue standing awkwardly and happily in line.

He's not lucky.

"So, what are you getting?" Jim nods at the counter ahead of them. 

"A coffee and something." 

"Something?" Jim asks, and Blair can't tell if it's a serious question or if he's being teased.

"I, uh, hadn't decided yet. I figure the line is pretty long, so… no rush." He's given up on ending this conversation early, so he returns the question: "You?"

"Oh, I already know what I want. I can decide real fast." The man's eyes are scanning the line in front of him when he says it, casually, but the words affect Blair like Jim has whispered them into his ears. Goosebumps break out on his arms and his breathing picks up. The way he'd said that was---fuck, it was hot. It shouldn't have been hot. Jesus, this was a conversation about pastries. 

"And you never regret it?" He, at least, regrets the question as soon as he asks.

Now Jim is smiling right at him instead of looking at the counter. "Never have." 

Blair is desperately trying to think of what to say next when he hears a familiar, generic buzz and sees Jim pull his cell phone out of his pocket. "Sorry, got to take this."

"Sure, no problem," Blair replies, and turns around again. He pretends not to notice as Jim exits the line behind him and leaves the café, presumably to have a more private conversation. _Thank you, thank you, thank you. May all of your chats be long and fruitful._

He makes it to the front of the line without incident, and then to the Coffee Dress-Up station, where he adds milk and several sugars to his coffee to make it vaguely palatable. He's busy stirring when the air near him shifts and he realizes that Jim is back, standing so close to Blair that he can smell him: a slightly spicy, masculine scent that put him on edge. 

Jim speaks first, his voice low. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I think I know your face and I think I know where I know it from." He continues before Blair can say anything, which is good because Blair doesn't know what he should actually say. 

"I owe you, man. I was in some trouble that night and you helped me. So let me know if you're ever in some trouble and I'll see what I can do." He chuckles, and slides a small paper on the counter towards Blair. "And if you don't know what the hell I'm talking about, then just consider me a man of mystery."

With that, he walks off as abruptly as he'd arrived, leaving Blair to his coffee, his thoughts, and the note, which is--he flips it over--just a name and phone number. Jim Ellison.

\-----------------------------

For the rest of the day, Blair is a mess. He gives up on grading his students' work as early as five and heads home for a long run, and an easy dinner, and a big glass of boxed wine. 

He reviews Jim's words to him over and over, until they feel like lines in a play. I owe you, he'd said. Not "I know what you are," or "I wonder why you didn't call for help." Just I owe you: no questions, no accusations. It seemed too good to be true.

ACT V: A GUIDE IN THE OPEN

By the time the spring quarter is coming to a close, Blair has seen Jim several more times around campus. Occasionally, Jim would stop him for a brief, impersonal chat, but he never brought up the events from last winter again, and the conversation never strayed into personal territory.

The only time things got weird was during a warm April evening when Blair ran into Jim while crossing campus at night to head to a potluck hosted by one of Tasha's friends. He'd already had two beers with some other TAs in the Psychology department and was feeling pleasantly relaxed when he saw Jim turn a corner around the next building and walk towards him.

After a brief hello, the conversation had started out normally--even if Blair had seen Jim's eyes flicker down to Blair's chest, where he'd undone his top two buttons after overheating in the bar during happy hour, and scan his slightly flushed neck and face. 

But when Blair smiled at Jim and explained that he had "somewhere to be," Jim's eyebrows ticked upwards. "A hot date, huh?" 

Blair laughed. "Hardly. A house party." The beers he's already had keep him talking even when he knows he should shut up. "Although, who knows -- maybe I'll meet someone tall, dark, and handsome anyway."

Jim's lips curve slightly, but he's not laughing. Without his Guide powers, Blair is as clueless as anyone else about the emotions of others, but he'd almost say Jim's irritated. "Maybe. Life's full of surprises." 

For the rest of his walk, he rolls the exchange around in his mind.

 _Is he jealous? Does he want to… date?_ The idea is laughable. Blair doesn't date, and he barely has sex. He tries, almost inevitably, a few times a year, but each time leaves him exhausted and reminded of the difficulty of keeping his powers properly leashed during intimacy. 

That doesn't stop him from imagining what it would be like later that night when he's in the shower. He's never seen the man without clothes, but with the way they fit--he sighs and tilts his head back into the spray while bringing his hand down to his hardening cock.

\------------------------------------

Several days later, when the phone rings, Blair is staring out of the window in his shared graduate student office, which smells musty but has a lovely view of the eastern quad. He's pleasantly surprised when he picks up the phone and hears his mother's voice on the other end of the line, but when he hears what she's actually saying, his stomach drops.

"The birdwatchers identified that bright little bird in my yard," she says. "Red warbler." 

"Oh?" Blair replies, his voice sounded tinny even to his own ears. 

"Yes. In any case, darling, I've got to run. Just thought you'd be interested."

He barely finishes saying thanks and hanging up before he's grabbing his things and heading out the door. God damnit. How the hell had anyone -- how had they found him? What changed? He doesn't understand. The past quarter has been so non-eventful, some people would call it boring. He hasn't had any Guide slip-ups in years. He can't even imagine what could have tipped anyone off.

Well, it doesn't matter now. All that matters is getting out in time.

As soon as he exits the building, his phone vibrates. Thinking it might be his mother again, somehow, he pulls it out again--but it's Jim's name displayed on the screen.

_He did say he owed me._

He manages to keep his voice steady when he picks up and starts talking. _My mother just called (true). She's sick (lie). I need to leave town unexpectedly for a while (true). Can you take care of my cat for now?_

Throughout it all, Jim doesn’t ask any big questions, and for that, Blair is grateful. He's nothing but reassurances and, "Sure," and "No problem." The way he speaks seems steady and grounding, and the relief he feels that someone else is on his side--even if they don't actually know what "his side" really is--is overwhelming. 

It doesn't occur to him to ask why Jim had called.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, folks, this chapter is where the fic earns its rating.
> 
> Please heed the warnings and tags.

ACT VI: DEBTS TO BE PAID

When Blair reaches his apartment building, he's surprised to notice that there's already a car there, waiting. It seems impossible that Jim could have gotten there so fast, and actually--his stomach churns--he hadn't wanted Jim to get here so quickly. 

And is that… he stops, stares. Is that a Sentinel license plate? No time to pick up belongings if they're already here. No time for anything except trying to get away. 

He turns on his heels to leave, and almost walks right into Jim, who places his hand on Blair's shoulder to steady him. "Shit, man." Blair's voice is breathier than he's heard it in a long time. "Give a guy some warning." 

Jim is just looking quietly at him, as if he's waiting.

The Sentinel car, Jim being here, Jim running into him on campus so much, his mother's call: it all blends together into one horrible realization. Jim is the Sentinel. And when he tenses as if to pull away, Jim's grip on his shoulder tightens to a degree that is near pain.

"That's not a good idea, chief." His voice is rougher than usual, and the sound of it makes Blair's stomach twist. He knows it's not a good idea. But he wants to run anyway. He wants to--god, he wants out of this. But there's no way he can get out right now. 

Later, then. There has to be a later.

"Did you always know?" Blair asks. He doesn't know why it's important, but it is. He needs to know if he'd ever had a chance, or if he'd doomed himself from the moment he saw Jim's broken body on the side of the street and decided, such a soft-heart, to investigate.

"Yes." Jim's thumb starts rubbing in slow circles against the muscle of Blair's shoulder. "Just took me a while to track you down." 

A while? His mind whirls as he thinks back. He could have sworn that only a month or two had passed between seeing him injured and running into him at the café. Clearly they had different views on what a "while" was. The perspective of the wolf, versus the hare.

"Do you know what it was like for me, meeting you?" Jim continues. His eyes are bright, intense, and impossible to look away from. Like watching a sunset, or a car hurtling towards you. 

"I don’t care." _What typical Sentinel bullshit._ "I helped you. You said you owed me, once."

"I did, and I do." The hand on his shoulder slides down his arm and off his sleeve, dragging against bare skin. Blair hates how good it feels when it does. By the time Jim's hand stops to encircle Blair's wrist, his thumb pressing gently against his pulse point, the touch has left a trail of goosebumps on his skin and a small, unwanted rush of arousal.

"The best thing I can do for you is to keep you here, with me."

\-----------------------------

Even after Jim has led him to the car and gently nudged him inside, Blair struggles with a sense that this isn't happening. It feels surreal. He's tried so hard to make sure that this never happens, but here he is, in a car with a Sentinel leading him who-knows-where, presumably to take him away from everything he knows as his.

"Where are you taking me?"

Jim keeps his eyes on the road as he answers. "Back to my place."

"Your place?" Blair didn't expect this. "Don't you need to take me to like, a center?" 

"Sure, if you needed to be logged into the system for the first time."

The implications of his answer don't take long to register with Blair. "I'm logged into the system already?" he asks, realizing belatedly that he's beginning to raise his voice.

"Once I realized who you were, and what you were," Blair notices Jim's hands tightening on the steering wheel, "I got your information from the school and logged you myself. Eventually. Didn't want to do it too early and have a bunch of other Sentinels come and start sniffing around you on campus. The fewer people who know about you like this, the better." 

"Like this?"

Jim slides a slow, hot look at him. "Unbonded. Untrained. Uncooperative. Take your pick."

Blair shudders, realizes that Jim can probably sense it--that he can probably sense everything about him, from his deodorent to the way his hands are gripping the denim of his jeans--and shudders again. 

"Do you really want to go to a center now?" Jim asks, voice mild.

"Jesus, no." There's no way in hell he wants to go to a center. He just doesn't quite understand--Jim had said earlier that the best thing he could do was to keep Blair with him--oh, god. Jim wants to be Blair's Sentinel. That's why he didn't want other Sentinels sniffing around. That's why he's taking him home. That's why he keeps---keeps touching Blair, and staring at Blair like he can't get enough.

Blair wonders if it's too late to just jump out of the car. There's a stoplight ahead, and if he could just run out as soon as they come up to--his heart races. 

Amidst his frenzied planning, the sound of the car doors locking has never seemed so loud.

"Like I said, chief: not a good idea." Jim's voice is still low and sounds almost relaxed, but when Blair turns to look at him again, a muscle in his jaw is ticking and his nostrils are slightly flared. 

"I don't want to be a Guide." 

Jim laughs, like Blair's told him a joke. "Yeah, that I figured."

"So can't you pick another one?"

His voice is clipped. "Don't want another one; never have. Just you." 

"But," Blair knows he's treading on thin ice here, but his emotions feel too big for his body and he can't seem to stop talking, "I don't understand why it has to be me. And I don't want you."

"We'll work on that." Surprisingly, Jim seems relaxed again instead of insulted, and Blair is left more discomfited that he would have been by outright anger. Does Jim know something he doesn’t? He can't possibly know what Blair has thought about late at night sometimes, all by himself. Did Blair's body give something away at some point? Or is he just so confident in his own appeal?

He sinks down into his seat and worries. 

_If only the car drive would never end._

_If only I'd never been caught._

_If only I'd never helped Jim._

\--------------------------------------------------

The house they pull up to, slowly, is tucked away on the mountain-side, secluded and surprisingly large. Blair has been in this general neighborhood before, but only for a dinner hosted at a professor's house. None of the graduate students that he knows are nearly wealthy enough to live here. _I guess being in the IT department really isn't his only source of income,_ he thinks bitterly. 

When the car stops completely and he hears the doors unlock while Jim is still in the drivers' seat, he sits frozen for only a moment before throwing his door open and bolting out the side.

Even though he knows Jim told him running was a bad idea--even though he knows, without being told, that running is a bad idea--he can't seem to care. This feels like his only chance.

He makes it at least a dozen feet down the winding path leading back to the main road before his arm is caught and pulled behind him in a position that is too painful to bear. He yelps, and is brought back roughly into Jim's body.

Jim just keeps him there for few moments in silence, only moving to bring his face down into the crook of Blair's neck. He breathes deeply, and Blair realizes with some horror that he's being scented. He's been educated enough that he knows what this is. What this means.

He begins to squirm, desperate, but his movement does nothing but make him realize his own physical helplessness against Jim's strength. To his horror, he finds himself growing slightly excited and has to fight to maintain control of his Guide powers. Behind him, the sentinel groans and tightens his arms.

"Thought you might still try to run." He sounds drunk.

"So you let me do it anyway?" _He played me._ Blair sees he's going to need to revise his opinion of Jim as a basic and straight-forward man. Nothing about him seems basic anymore. Or straight-forward.

"Mm." God, he can feel Jim's breath moving against his skin. It's horrible and alluring; he can feel his own abilities trying to rise up and reach out like an itch beginning beneath this skin. "I figured you needed to start seeing how it'll end." There's a kiss against the curve of his neck. Blair hisses. "Thanks for the lesson," he replies, sarcastic, and is rewarded by the hand around his waist slowly dipping under his waistband. He whimpers. "You should let me go." The feeling of the sentinel's fingers drawing across his lower stomach is unbearable, as is Blair's continued restraint in his arms. Everything surrounding him is the sentinel. 

When Jim responds, he sounds almost gentle. "You know I won't do that." The hand draws upward, lightly caressing Blair's chest like---like it's all his, Blair thinks. "You're going to be so good for me, Blair. And I'm going to be very good to you." His fingers close over Blair's nipple and pinch, slowly. Blair's cock jumps and his entire body stiffens in the sentinel's arms. 

"I… I don’t--"

"It's alright. You're here with me."

Beginning to feel overwhelmed, Blair stands still and quiet and is rewarded--if rewarded is the word--when Jim takes Blair's nipple again, this time between his index and middle finger, and begins to rub. 

It feels… god. Blair can feel his face heating up. In any other situation, he'd want to lean forward and chase the sensation, but he can't. Not while he's restrained like this. The powerlessness of his own position and the knowledge of the sentinel's control, combined with his own anger, only intensify his confused, intense, response. He's fully hard, and feels like his world is narrowing to one touch.

"Good." His voice is like gravel, and Blair vaguely considers how much information he must be picking up from Blair's exposed body. He knows. "Let's go inside." It's not a question. 

Still feeling hopelessly lost in this situation and his body's responses, Blair doesn't even try to move, just stands encircled by Jim's arms and waits.

They're moving on Jim's timeline now.

EPILOGUE

Jim knows it's been a long time since the guide was touched properly. He's done his research on Blair, and he knows keeping powers like that hidden for so long comes at a cost.

And he's sympathetic, he really is, but--he smiles slightly as he twists his fingers and Blair groans heavily and leans back further into his chest--it works to his advantage. He wants Blair reliant. Wants him addicted to what he can give.

He places a kiss below Blair's ear and breathes in deeply, enjoying the smell of him so close, the taste of the sweat on his skin, and the sound of his heart pounding with arousal. And some fear, too. Some anger. Less now than even a few hours before, but still there. 

That's alright. Something to work on. He's no naïve boy just out of the academy who thinks that Guides are just willing and waiting for their Sentinel to take them properly. 

"Keep your legs open just like that, Chief." He says it softly, but with the same command he'd use to give any orders in the field, and is rewarded by another choked, helpless moan from Blair and another quick rise in his heartbeat as his legs shake and stay open. 

Jim sighs. It's moments like this that he can barely believe his good luck. He wonders if Blair has even had someone boss him around before. Wonders if he has ever discovered how much he likes it. Wonders if he knew how well his body responds to the right dominating hand.

From the way he's responding now, he doubts it.

After all his arguing in the car, after all his fighting once they'd reached Jim's house, Blair seems to be unable to do anything now except take what Jim gives him. And he's going to give him a lot. Starting with--he slowly adds another finger, almost reverently.

He's really in debt to Blair, Jim thinks, unable to take his eyes off the flushed Guide beneath him. 

He really is. 

It's a pity that there are some debts you can never pay off.


End file.
